Slipknot
by Dim Aldebaran
Summary: Things fall apart: the center cannot hold. Holly is no exception. HollyArtemis HollyTrouble oneshot. 12LH, Crim JanFeb challenge entry.


S L I P K N O T

- Dim Aldebaran -

_Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.  
_William Butler Yeats

"The Second Coming"

I.

Perhaps it was foolish of her, and maybe even a little stupid, but she was never been admittedly either, and it might be a change for the better.

Was it for the money?—no, too simple, she liked to think herself above such things. Then—for vengeance, or was that falling lower yet? Or perhaps curiosity, so long buried beneath the psychotic bureaucracy of the mind.

_Pride_, she told herself in the end. Low, but not as low as revenge.

But—she hadn't said 'yes' yet—it lodged in her throat, like wedding cake.

Trouble had that look in his eyes—she had to say it now. She did, and was surprised: how could one syllable make such a silence? Curious, how the breaking heart made no sound.

II.

'Observation', she called it, to decide which questions to ask, which buttons to push. Some believed in her and her perfect PI record and excused those fruitless days—but those who had known her before the great schism, they knew why she waited, hesitated, stalled.

The 'subject', as she tried and failed to refer to him as, had a cell to himself. She could observe him through the one-way mirrors, and she did: she'd gaze inside for hours, wondering, wondering, _wondering_ why. The security guards must have thought her in a deep, meditative trance, watching him for hours without movement: she supposed pining and musing were really not that different.

Was this the boy that had cried for his father, was this the boy who had called her friend?

But this wasn't a boy anymore. Perhaps that was it: humans grew colder, crueler with age, the shells of depravity added like tree rings.

III.

After a week, Trouble came and questioned her progress/sanity.

She stared in. _Frond, he sits there so calmly, just sits, damnit, what's wrong with him—_

"Talk to me, _please_."

It was that twang of desperation that made her reply: "I'm fine."

—"He won't speak to anyone else," he said. "If you can't get a confession, we have nothing."

Through the mirror, their eyes locked. _Frond, I forgot how blue they were—_

"I'll start tomorrow."

"Okay," he said, and left.

Those eyes—_how blue they are, how dark, how deep, twilight blue—_

IV.

The bed was very cold.

She tried, for a while—but memories alone could not warm a bed.

V.

The guards let her in readily enough; they knew her face, like everyone these days. It was all over the media, that comrade took on criminal, that fairy friend would backstab fairy foe.

He was waiting, cross-legged, eyes open like great doors through sky and sea, doors to places she could scarce remember remembering.

She dared not meet his eyes; how he turned her to stone, this Medusa. "I am private investigator Holly Short, who will be handling your case—"

He waved his hands—those careful, perfect white hands. "Formalities are unnecessary; we have a history, after all."

"—The LEP will be prosecuting you to the full extent of the law—"

He moved, interrupting her. His hands made careful curves in the air, _cosine curves_, she noted.

He smiled as she stared. "Memories, Holly? Let us stop playing checkers and try the chess."

She took a breath and continued: "At any time during the interrogation you may request a legal advisor."

Again, those slow hands, slender, simple. It stopped her more surely than any bullet. "I know the Booke better than your lawyers," he replied—_Frond, those eyes—_"Remember that… loophole I found? Oh yes, to think of the _fun_ we had—"

She spoke as fast as she could, racing through a thrice-shattered mind. "You have the right to request a different investigator at any time. You have the ri—"

"And why," he asked in his slow silk, "would I want anyone but you?"

She fled; those eyes, following her, made her flee all the faster.

VI.

Trouble caught her outside, like a butterfly in the net; weakly, she resisted, flopping about, silently crying as she tangled herself all the more in his arms. In the end he held her still and close.

She told him that she couldn't do this—so he invited her to coffee.

When all was downed and done, she looked across the rim of her mug and smiled. "Thank you," she murmured, and left.

VII.

This time, he was draped over a chair, languid, feline. His smile was that of the Cheshire cat. She wished he would laugh and disappear.

She took out her notebook and resolved to look at it and it alone. "State your name, for the record."

"Achilles."

"I hate symbolism."

"Yes, Briseis."

"I'm not your heel," she replied. "Greed is."

"Are you so sure?"

Like black, like white: "Yes."

"Now," he queried, "why would I kill a man if it only brought me here?" His hands were like white birds, doves, evocative as they flitted through the air. "No one would have ever known, if not for a convenient tip to the Brotherhood. And—of course, could an unstable Mud Man be trusted with the secret of the fairies?" He smiled that leopard-smile, before the kill. "By the way: your notebook is blue."

"So?"

He looked deeper, and deeper, and then she knew, like she had known nothing else before. "Bastard," she whispered.

"Hypocrite," he replied.

VIII.

It was prearranged, this time—most would call it a date, though she did a duck/evade number on the label.

He asked her how she was, how it went. She gave some slippery reply, and he tightened his ring of questioning until she broke and hung her head, letting some truth escape, though it would circle back and follow doggedly at her heels.

He sifted through his coffee for a new question. "How's life?" he found.

She laughed; it sounded alien, strange. "Are you a date or a shrink?"

"Both."

"Dates end with a kiss," she replied, slipping from her chair, "and shrinks part with philosophical bullshit."

He leaned in and gave her both.

IX.

His hands were steepled. She traced the finely sculptured fingers, the delicate tracery in his veins, the surreal precision of whatever god had chiseled out this marble statue.

"Remember the diamond?" he asked.

"Remember the promise?"

She died as their eyes met.

She put a pen to paper—_white, _she thought, _bleached, like his skin_. "Do you have any regrets?"

"Life itself."

"Regarding the crime."

His hands stretched out and played _Für Elise_ on a piano only they could see. The chords rippled and spun in her mind. She found herself caught in the swirl and could scarce draw out again. "It was rather messy," he replied. "Blood, urine, sweat, _et cetera_. I had to be rather belligerent about it, unfortunately."

Her pen sagged in her hand. "Is this for the record?"

He cocked his head. "Isn't there a vid running for such things?"

She nodded.

"Have it off tomorrow."

She remembered that very look in his eyes, blue-black, looking deep and withdrawing her soul, spinning it into a thread and that into a noose.

X.

She knew someone who knew all the numbers, made all the 'friends', had a magnet for all those lost needles. "Holly, it's been too long—"

"I have a favor to ask."

_crunchcrunchcrunch_ "You want me to play the Bors to your little romance, right?"

She nodded.

"Ah, Guinevere, I thought you'd never ask—when shall this tryst occur?" _crunchcrunchcrunch_

She told him.

"Tell Lancelot he has an hour for this affair of yours," he said _crunchcrunchcrunch_ and added, "Ah, Guinevere, but what of Arthur? He will not be blind forever."

_click_

XI.

Trouble had ordered her coffee, but it was cold when she arrived.

"I'm sorry," he began, "I'm sorry I asked you to do this—"

She shook her head. "Tomorrow's my last day," she replied. "Argon's had his fill. The Council has ruled that all this is against the Book, so after my assessment he's getting shipped home."

He hesitated. "—after all this—do you still want to—"

She thought (not really.) "Yes."

XII.

The bed was hot, sticky. She could smell herself, smell Trouble, smell them_, smell us_, she thought.

She curled in on herself: but he held her in his sleep, possessive, tight against his chest, hand sprawled across her belly, breath in her ear.

His brown eyes were black in the gloom; she had pretended they were dark blue, earlier.

XIII.

She slipped her blouse on. Trouble watched.

"I can get you back in Recon," he said suddenly. "I'm Commander. I can even get you your old rank."

She paused, blouse half-buttoned, then started again. "I don't know."

"Will you know afterwards?"

She turned. His eyes were brown, like mud. "Maybe."

XIV.

He sat. His black hair, longish from captivity, swept over his brow like a wing of night. "I thought you would."

She stood there, very still, a mouse, watching the snake slip towards her.

"Closer," he murmured. His fingers rippled, beckoning.

She stepped slowly, one foot in front of the other, in a perfect line.

"No," he breathed. Fingers, smooth, cool, spiderlike, cupped her face in its entirety. "I knew you would."

She tried to say something, but all that came was a shuddering sigh as she drifted downwards.

"Do you want this?"

Rhetorical: he knew all, omnipotent, like the god she had never quite believed.

His hands moved, down, _down_, to the buttons of her blouse. She stood there, a quivering aspen, letting the winds take her, make her bare, crashing her down so she died, again and again and again and again—

XV.

Her coffee was hot; they had parted on time.

He asked too many questions. He looked down at his hands, then up again. "Why?"

"Because he asked, 'why not?'"

His eyes were dark—brown.

"It didn't mean anything."

"Does this?"

"—Yes."

He looked up, down, left, right, then bit his lip. "Am I enough?"

"Yes," she replied.

He slipped from his chair. "Tell me when you're sure."

XVI.

Her scent—_their _scent—draped over her room like an itchy blanket. She relocated to the couch, but it drifted after her, sweet, thick, heavy. The couch was blue, dark blue, black in the gloom.

She shifted in the dark. The scent insulated her thoughts, compounding the memories to an impossible blur of heat.

In the darkness, she hadn't known the difference.

That was enough.

XVII.

He answered at the fifth knock. Wordlessly, he led her inside, into the darkness.

**:i:**

Inspiration: Reading _The Second Coming_ shortly after a glorious movie, _Quills_. My brain went: click! and then my keyboard went: clickclickclickclickclick! right back.

Well, other than that, I'm not sure what to say, asides from this being rather mad on my part. Everyone ought to pray to Yeats, Lord of Awesome Allusions and Adjectives.

Well, I'm _probably_ using this fic for my ArtemisHolly for the Twelve Labors of Hercules challenge (monstrous, really) and _definitely_ for the JanFeb Criminality challenge, which required two pairings given equal time to develop (here, HollyArtemis and HollyTrouble.)

Let's see… the main thing that bugs me about this piece is the buildup to Holly's 'snap'. So, basically, could you tell me if the amount of Artemis-Holly interaction was enough, or if it happened Too Quickly? Also, if the TroubleHolly and ArtemisHolly action were more-or-less equal so it meets the challenge qualifications. Other CC, of course, is Much Desired.

Thanks for reading!


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